Faceintmud

Preface Face In’t Mud is a quarterly travel and lifestyle magazine based in Yorkshire, UK. Dedicated to a different town, village or hamlet in each issue, the publication uses a lo-fi approach to journalism to document the perks, quirks, and grizzly bits of northern living.

Issue 01 Penistone

The Highest Market Town in England

A Brief History of Penistone Located in the South of Yorkshire, Penistone is a small market town and civil parish famed for being the highest market town in England.

The town’s history dates back to 1066 when it was known to be owned by Ailric. However, in 1069 it was razed to the ground following the Norman Conquest in what became known as the Harrying of the North.

Historically, the town had been of little importance until 1845 and the coming of the railway. It is now a major junction with an engineering depot, with the Penistone Line connecting many of Yorkshire’s rural towns.

A Wander Around This strange little town

The first thing to perplex us about this funny little town was the train station. Exiting doesn’t involve anything as elaborate as a bridge or a subway, no.

Instead, just look both ways, cross the tracks and go about your day.

The first residents to welcome us to the town were not humans, but a herd of goats, perched on top of a hill leading you into the town. Actual people were found eventually, sat in The Arthouse Cafe and Deli, where we had a brew and a bun to set us up for a day of exploring.

We scavenged and bargained for old treasures in J&B Antiques and Collectables, stumbling across dusty books, brash outfits and odds and ends worn down by time. The next hour was spent idly wandering through the centre of town, sampling greasy chips and laughing childishly at naughty names (Spread Eagle pub and Cockpit Lane) that we can only hope were intentional and not simply coincidental.

After a while, we found ourselves heading deep into the surrounding countryside, a little bit lost, occasionally being set in the right direction by kindly Yorkshiremen with accents we could barely understand. Finally arriving at our desired location, a body of water with a protruding metal dome, we were greeted by a cool breeze and a dead bird. Not exactly the site we had pictured, but then it’s about the journey, not the destination.

A destination we came to realise later we had accidentally trespassed on.

We went back to the Arthouse Cafe to rest our weary legs and ponder the mystery of the poor dead bird over another brew. No conclusions could be made about the bird, and so we headed home, tired and curious.